Kushan Outpost, Narn
Year - 6999 N.Y
The battlefield had gone quiet—eerily quiet. The kind of silence that falls not in peace, but in aftermath. A silence that whispered of lives lost and power unveiled. Snow fell gently now, soft and unbothered, dusting the broken bodies of Razik's forces like a cold, white shroud.
Kon walked beside Kopa, their boots crunching faintly over the blood-flecked snow. The wind had calmed, but it still carried a chill that cut past fur and cloak alike. And yet, it wasn't the cold that made Kon's heart beat faster. It was the image burned into his memory: that storm of feathers—beautiful, terrible, and unrelenting—raining down with divine precision. That wasn't just skill. That was judgment. That was control beyond comprehension.
Is that what being a Lord means? he thought, his jaw tightening unconsciously. To wield death with a word? With a single breath?
And if it was… would he ever be able to match it?
They passed through the perimeter of the Kushan camp, a series of elegant tents crafted from pale hide and feathered trim, fluttering lightly in the breeze. The air was taut with purpose. Tracients in the form of falcons, hawks, and eagles moved about with disciplined silence, their eyes always alert, always watching the sky. They acknowledged Kopa with respectful nods, but most gave Kon curious glances—measuring, wondering.
He felt them. Their gazes. Not hostile, but piercing. As if they could see his doubt before he could even name it himself.
Then he saw him.
Lord Talonir stood at the camp's center, tall as a mountain peak. His cape of black-brown and gray feathers still danced faintly, as if the wind itself hesitated to leave his side. He had not sheathed his weapon—still in its bow form, cradled in one clawed hand with casual authority, like a king holding a scepter he'd long since stopped needing to raise. His face was a study in command: a scar carved across his face, silver feathers streaked through dark plumage, and those sharp, hawk-like eyes that seemed to see not just through people, but into them.
Kon's breath caught, only briefly, but he felt it. He had faced Razik. He had stood before The Shadow himself. And yet this… this was different. This was not a predator playing games. This was a sovereign of the sky.
And Talonir hadn't even looked at him yet.
Kopa said he's like me. Kon remembered the words, but they felt distant now—wrong. I'm nothing like that.
His pace slowed slightly, as if his feet sensed what his pride refused to admit: that something inside him was recoiling. Not in fear, but in reverence. And maybe… shame.
Kopa walked ahead without hesitation. But Kon lingered, caught between his awe and the burden of expectation. He squared his shoulders as they reached the edge of the gathering, willing his expression to harden, to show none of the doubt writhing in his chest.
He can't see weakness. Not in me. Not now.
Talonir's head turned at last. Those piercing eyes settled on Kon—and for the first time in Kon's life, it felt as though he was being weighed, not just watched. Judged, not merely greeted.
And Talonir said nothing.
Not yet.
Kopa bowed deeply before Talonir, his antlers lowered in a gesture of deep respect—a motion not done out of obligation but out of reverence. In the presence of a Narn Lord, especially this one, formality was not mere ceremony—it was language.
"Lord Talonir," Kopa said, his voice steady as frost and clear as glass. "I bring Kon Kaplan, son of Orin Kaplan."
The name lingered in the cold air like a spark in still snow.
Talonir turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
The Lord's pale eyes—sharp as the tip of an arrow and colder than the wind sweeping over the camp—settled on Kon. He did not blink. Did not speak. For a breathless moment, he simply watched, and Kon felt it like a weight dropped squarely on his chest. It wasn't mere observation. Talonir was measuring him. Reading not just his stance, but his stillness. Not just his body, but the way it carried memory.
Kon held his ground, though it was like standing beneath a cliff edge that could collapse at any moment. His muscles burned with the desire to adjust—just a shift in posture, a straightening of the shoulders—but he resisted. Movement, right now, would only be admission. Admission of fear. Of uncertainty.
Still, inside, his thoughts were anything but steady.
What does he see when he looks at me? A soldier? A boy in his father's shadow? Just another name in a long line of the dead?
Talonir's silence was not empty. It was loud with memory.
And then, at last, he spoke.
"You have your father's eyes."
It wasn't a compliment. It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't anything that could be easily filed under 'good' or 'bad.' It was simply true. Spoken like a statement carved into stone.
Kon's breath caught without meaning to. For all the ways he had prepared himself for this meeting—every imagined challenge, every clever response crafted in his mind—this single, simple sentence unraveled him more than any threat or rebuke might have.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. What was he supposed to say to that?
"Thank you?"
"I know?"
"Do you miss him too?"
The words hovered, unformed.
Talonir's gaze hadn't shifted. Not one degree. And Kon could see, just beneath the surface of that impassive expression, the faintest flicker—no more than a candle flame caught behind frost-glass. Recognition. Regret. Memory. Something had stirred behind those hawk-like eyes, and it had nothing to do with Kon himself.
He's not looking at me, Kon realized. He's looking at Orin's ghost.
And for a strange, aching moment, Kon didn't know if he was proud… or ashamed.
Sensing the tension thickening like storm clouds between them, Kopa stepped in, his voice controlled but insistent. "Lord Talonir, I know you weren't at the last summit, but things have changed. The prophecy is in motion. Kon has inherited the Arya of Destruction. He's—"
But Talonir raised a hand, sharp and final, like the slicing edge of a falling blade.
"I have no reason to take him in," he said, and his tone was colder than the air that clung to their fur. "He may have inherited the Arya, but that alone does not make him a Narn Lord. And it certainly doesn't make him Orin."
The words didn't shout, but they struck like war drums inside Kon's chest. He felt them land—each one a precise arrow, loosed not in rage, but in refusal. It wasn't just what Talonir said, but the way he said it—utterly certain, as if the matter was already settled.
Kon's fists clenched at his sides. He didn't speak. Didn't blink. But inside, his mind roared. He had heard similar things before—echoes from foes and allies alike. You're not him. You never will be. But coming from this man—the one his father had fought beside—it dug deeper than any blade.
It was as if a silent hope he hadn't dared name had been quietly crushed before it could even form.
But before he could speak, Kopa stepped forward, his antlers squared, his tone hardening. "You're wrong, Talonir," he said, voice firm and rising like a wind against a cliff face. "Kon has earned his place among us. Whether you like it or not, the Arya chose him. That makes him one of us—by right, not permission."
Talonir didn't flinch, but his hawk-like gaze flicked briefly to Kopa. "Potential means nothing," he said, "without the strength and discipline to wield it. The prophecy may have stirred, but that does not mean I will train someone unfit for the title. A Narn Lord must be more than a bearer of power. He must be a guardian of it. One who understands that every choice could echo across generations."
Kopa's frustration crackled like fire in dry leaves. "And you think Kon doesn't have that? You think he hasn't paid the price already? He's faced Razik and lived. He's walked through fire and shadow, and still he's standing. Orin would be proud of him, just like the rest of us are."
But Talonir was unmoved—rooted like a mountain, unshaken. "Pride is sentiment. Legacy is obligation. Orin was not great because he was strong. He was great because he knew when to stand still and when to strike. He was a storm held in restraint."
That did it. Kopa stepped forward, his voice rising. "You think this boy—this man—hasn't shown restraint? You haven't even looked at him properly, and you're ready to cast him aside?"
Their voices rose, clashing not unlike the wind and thunder of Narn's old storms, each defending a future they saw differently.
And still, Kon said nothing.
But he felt everything.
Every word hung in his chest like a stone.
He was being spoken about, not to. Judged by a man who had never seen him fight, never heard him cry, never watched him bleed. He could feel the old pressure returning—that weight he had worn his whole life. Not just of his father's legacy, but of the expectations others hung around his neck like chains.
And yet—
He placed a hand on Kopa's shoulder, gently, but with the quiet firmness of someone who had made up his mind.
"It's no use, Kopa," he said quietly.
Kopa turned, surprised by the calm in Kon's voice.
But Kon wasn't finished.
He turned to Talonir, and this time, he met the Air Lord's cold gaze with one of his own. Not with defiance. Not with rage. But with something steadier. Rooted.
"I've heard the stories," Kon said. "About how you and my father fought side by side. About the respect you had for each other. People said you were alike—both strong, both fearless. Both loyal."
Talonir's eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. He didn't speak.
"But now that I've met you," Kon continued, "I doubt that."
His voice was still steady, but it carried the rawness of truth.
"My father would never turn his back on someone just because they hadn't 'proven' themselves yet. He believed in people—even before they believed in themselves. He didn't wait for them to earn their worth. He fought for them, even when they didn't ask him to."
A long silence followed.
The snow fell lightly between them, gentle and unyielding.
And Kon stood there—not as a boy asking for approval, but as a man stating a truth he had lived through.
Talonir did not reply. Not yet.
But for the first time, his hawk-like eyes blinked.
Talonir's stern expression faltered—barely, but enough for Kon to see it. A flicker passed through the Lord's eyes like a shadow crossing a still pond. For the first time, something behind that hawk-like stare began to move—not in calculation or judgment, but in memory.
His mind drifted without permission, as if drawn by some tether that had long remained buried beneath years of command and silence.
He was young again. Snow had fallen just as it did now, thick and fast. He remembered the heat of battle pressing close around him, the shrill screech of steel on steel, the bitter scent of blood rising like smoke from the ground. And there, amid the chaos, stood Orin Kaplan—his back to Talonir's, his blade singing with purpose, his presence calm and indomitable. They had fought without words, as comrades often did when trust ran deep. Side by side. Back to back. Like twin pillars against a crumbling world.
And then… a lull. A rare quiet.
They'd stood in the center of a battlefield gone eerily still, panting, blood-slicked, and dust-covered. Talonir—still a creature more of blade than heart—had asked, perhaps too bluntly, what Orin lived for. Not strategy, not power. What mattered to him, truly?
Orin had turned then, and Talonir remembered it perfectly. The quiet in his expression. The strength in his simplicity.
"The people I call my comrades," he had said. "I would never turn my back on them, no matter the cost. That's what matters most."
The memory settled over Talonir like a heavy cloak, soft and suffocating. The wind returned to the present, carrying the scent of snow and pine—but something inside him had shifted. Something old had stirred.
His gaze found Kon once more, but it was no longer the cold, testing glare of an examiner. He looked now as if he were seeing through time itself, not just at the young warrior before him but at a thread—a spark—that connected past and future. The boy was not his father. But he was his father's son.
And in that moment, Kon's stillness—the calm defiance in his stance, the conviction in his voice—seemed almost like an echo of Orin. Not mimicry. Not imitation. But something truer.
Slowly, as if moved by something deeper than duty, Talonir raised his hand.
Kon tensed on instinct, his shoulders twitching with the readiness of someone who had spent too long waiting for rejection. But the hand didn't strike. It touched.
Rough, weathered fingers—scarred by decades of war—brushed lightly against his cheek. The gesture was neither formal nor commanding. It was something altogether human.
Kon stiffened, startled. It was not the touch that caught him off guard, but the look in Talonir's eyes—something ancient and wounded. And then he saw it: a single tear, slow and deliberate, carving a path through the Lord's scarred face.
It gleamed briefly in the light before falling into the snow, vanishing soundlessly into the earth.
"You do have your father's eyes," Talonir whispered.
His voice, once as sharp as wind on stone, was now roughened—not with authority, but with sorrow. The cold was still there, but it was not the cold of disdain. It was the cold of loss, of years spent sealing something away too painful to hold close.
Kopa stood frozen nearby. His own breath caught in his throat, his antlers seeming to bow beneath the moment. He had seen Talonir crush armies. He had seen him stand unflinching beneath hails of fire. But he had never seen this.
The man of iron had cracked.
And through the fissure poured something rare—something vulnerable.
Grief.
Recognition.
Love.
Kon didn't know what to say. But in his silence, he gave something back. He didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He simply let the moment pass between them—quiet, holy, like something that could only exist in the stillness after a storm.
Talonir's hand lingered only a moment longer against Kon's face before he slowly withdrew it, the scar across his cheek tightening as the cold winds swept between them once more. The stoic mask he wore so often—chiseled by years of command, grief, and sacrifice—slid back into place. But though the sharpness of his features returned, there remained in his gaze a subtle warmth that had not been there before. A warmth earned, not given.
"The shoes you're trying to fill, Kon," he said at last, his voice quieter now, like a low wind over snow-draped cliffs, "are not easy ones."
His words were not said to wound—but they struck deep, all the same. There was no need for harshness when truth itself carried the weight.
"Your father was a great man," Talonir continued, turning his gaze briefly toward the sky as if searching for the ghost of his comrade in the drifting clouds above. "And being his son means you'll carry that burden for the rest of your life. Whether you ask for it or not."
Kon's hands curled at his sides, not from anger but from the steady tension of everything he carried within. His eye patch shifted slightly as he lifted his chin to meet Talonir's gaze—there was no hesitation in his voice now, no tremble, only steel threaded with quiet pain.
"I've been alone since I was a child," Kon said, the words simple, unornamented—but somehow heavier for it. "I've faced everything without anyone to guide me."
The wind whipped at his cloak, but he didn't flinch.
"Whatever's ahead…" he added, "...I'm ready for it."
Talonir studied him in silence for a breath or two longer, and for the first time, he seemed to truly see the boy not as Orin's son, not as the unproven bearer of an Arya—but as himself.
Those were not the words of a boy still growing into his shadow. They were the words of someone who had learned to bleed in silence and still keep walking.
A faint smile, barely more than a twitch at the corner of Talonir's mouth, appeared. It was a rare sight—so rare, in fact, that Kopa blinked in disbelief. The air lord's expression softened just enough to betray his unspoken thought: Perhaps... just perhaps.
"Those are brave words, Kon," Talonir said, his voice like the distant roll of thunder. "But bravery is only the beginning."
His cloak shifted behind him like wings folding in, feathers rustling as the wind caught them.
"We'll see if you can live up to them."
Then, without another word, he turned away—his back straight, his gaze distant. But as he moved toward the cliff's edge that overlooked the battlefield now strewn with silence and ash, there was a subtle heaviness in his stride. Not weakness, but memory.
His thoughts drifted again—unbidden, unwelcome—to the day he had lost Orin. To the sound of swords clashing in the snow. To the last words they had exchanged. To the emptiness that had lingered for years after.
And now here was Orin's son—carrying the same fire, walking the same path. A living echo of a brother long lost.
Talonir did not look back. But in his mind, he heard Orin's voice, clear as it had been that day on the battlefield: "Never turn your back on a comrade."
Perhaps it was not too late to remember that.
And behind him, standing tall in the snow, Kon watched his father's old friend walk away, unaware that for the first time… he had left an impression not even the wind could erase.